One Day
by Joodiff
Summary: Boyd is not a happy man, even though it's his birthday. But that's exactly WHY he's not a happy man. Grace doesn't know whether to be amused or irritated. And then they start on the bottle of Scotch stashed in his desk drawer... T for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Happy birthday to Scription Addict, November 2013. xx_

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**One Day**

by Joodiff

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The gently melancholy atmosphere in the near-empty squad room isn't entirely due to the late hour and the sad remnants of the hastily assembled celebration Grace realises as she walks back out of her office, unexpected and protracted telephone conversation finally concluded. The messily demolished cheap sponge cake, the empty snack packets, crumpled paper cups and the slew of half-empty bottles are depressing in their own way, but it's the distinct pall of gloom that seems to have settled firmly over Boyd that makes her raise her eyebrows slightly in a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He's sitting on the edge of Mel's desk in his shirtsleeves, arms folded resolutely across his broad chest, and even the loyal presence of his favourite co-conspirator at his shoulder doesn't seem to be doing anything to alleviate his morose mood. Grace is fairly certain she knows exactly why he's so glum, and it entertains her in an unworthy sort of way. Catching Frankie's eye she smirks slightly and in response the younger woman rolls her eyes in a very telling manner.

It's no secret to anyone that Boyd has a conspicuous soft-spot for Frankie, nor that she's wryly fond of him in return, but tonight not even Frankie's cheerful impudence seems able to lift his spirits. Walking forwards, Grace says with a deliberate sigh, "Oh, God, he's not _still_ sulking, is he?"

"'Fraid so," Frankie says, slipping nimbly from the table and picking up her quilted jacket. "Right, I'm off. Guess it's your turn to try to cheer the miserable old bugger up."

Sounding deeply sullen, Boyd himself says, "Yeah, piss off home and leave me to be depressed in peace."

Grace can't help chuckling. For a supposedly mature man with such a weight of responsibility on his shoulders, Boyd can be remarkably childish when it suits him. It doesn't seem to faze Frankie who merely leans forwards and places a mischievous kiss lightly on his cheek. "Happy birthday, grumpy. 'Night, Grace."

"'Night, Frankie," she responds with a genuinely affectionate smile. Retreating, Frankie waves airily at them both and rapidly disappears through the squad room's double doors.

"When did that happen?" Boyd demands before a brooding silence can take hold, a clear note of complaint in his voice.

Sitting down on Mel's chair and making herself comfortable, Grace asks mildly, "When did what happen?"

"The kissing thing," he replies with a vague wave of his hand, the note of complaint in his voice now replaced by pained disgust. "Mel did it too."

"This may come as something of a shock to you, Boyd, but they're actually quite fond of you most of the time. Heaven alone knows why."

"That's _not_ what I meant."

"Ah," Grace says wisely, her suspicions regarding his dark mood more-or-less confirmed, "you mean, when did you cease to be seen as a potential predator and cross into the sexless middle-aged twilight zone where nubile young women are quite happy to peck you on the cheek…?"

The dour look he gives her speaks volumes. "Thank you _so_ much for that, Grace. Do you have to take quite so much sadistic pleasure in putting me firmly in my place?"

She laughs softly. "Oh dear. You really are feeling sorry for yourself, aren't you? Poor Boyd. How's the mid-life crisis going, by the way?"

The forbidding glare coming in her direction intensifies. "I am _not_ having a mid-life crisis."

It's too good an opportunity to carry on needling him for Grace to show any mercy. "Of course you're not. I don't care what anyone says, I think beards can look very distinguished on older men."

Boyd glowers even more ferociously at her. "Fuck off, Grace."

She is neither offended nor intimidated. She's known him for too long to be either. She laughs again, more openly this time as he defensively runs a hand over the short brindled beard in question. Infuriatingly, it does rather suit him and Grace seriously doubts she's the only woman to think so. She shifts position so she can nudge his knee. "Oh, come on; snap out of it for heaven's sake. It's your birthday and you're supposed to be celebrating."

He picks up his paper cup and solemnly raises it in mournful salute. "Cheers. Another year closer to the grave."

Grace looks briefly heavenward. "Gosh, you're a real little ray of sunshine tonight, aren't you?"

Boyd stands up abruptly. "Why on earth are we drinking this cheap rubbish? Come into my office."

"My mother warned me about men like you, you know."

"I bet she bloody didn't."

"That's true," Grace admits, getting back to her feet, "there _are_ no other men like you."

Over his shoulder, he says, "Oh… ha, ha. You're hilarious, Grace."

"It's all right for you," she tells him, following him through his office door and absent-mindedly closing it behind her, "at least you haven't got the unpleasant prospect of your sixties staring you straight in the face. That should cheer you up – however old you are, Boyd, you'll always be that little bit younger than me."

"Well, if you put it that way," he says, a slight grin finally breaking through.

At full power, that grin never fails to do unfortunate things to her. The sort of things that Grace can well do without analysing too closely. On this occasion, however, it's bestowed in a rather muted fashion, which, given that they've both been drinking and that they're now entirely alone in the CCU's basement headquarters, is probably a very good thing indeed. Ignoring the urge to start speculating on things that can only lead her further into a terrible world of temptation, Grace settles on the rather basic couch situated at the edge of the room and watches as he produces a bottle and two glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk. She groans. "Oh, no, Boyd… not Scotch – please. Show some mercy. Haven't you ever heard of not mixing the grape and the grain?"

"Old wives' tale," he replies, pouring healthy measures into both glasses. "Here."

She takes the heavy tumbler reluctantly and waits for him to seat himself next to her before asking, "Surely it doesn't really bother you? Getting older?"

He spares her a sardonic glance. "Can I get back to you on that?"

Grace frowns, still slightly amused but also perplexed. "So you're heading for your mid-fifties – so what? You're fit, healthy and financially secure – _and_ you're lucky enough to still be doing a job you love."

"If you're going to tell me count my blessings you can get out of here right now."

"Oh, drink your whiskey and stop being so bad-tempered." She sighs impatiently. "What's got _into_ you today? Please don't tell me that stupid birthday present of Spencer's actually annoyed you?"

To her surprise, Boyd chuckles. "God, no. I thought it was funny."

"Just doesn't do to let the junior ranks know that, eh?"

He nods. "Got it in one. No, I suppose it's just… Oh, I don't know. Waking up this morning and suddenly realising just how quickly the years are going past, maybe."

"Mid-life crisis," she says sagely. "Deny it all you like, but as a psychologist – "

Boyd groans heavily. "Please God, no, Grace… Not the 'as a psychologist' speech. I can't take it, not tonight."

She prods his ankle firmly with her foot. "All I'm trying to say is that you're an attractive man who's – "

"Am I?"

She blinks at the interruption and then rolls her eyes despairingly. "Do you _really_ need me to massage your ego for you?"

"Might make me feel a bit better."

"I refuse to pander to you on principle."

Boyd grins at her, and this time there's nothing muted about it. It's the wickedly engaging thousand kilowatt grin that strips years off him and makes her suddenly uncomfortably very aware of his physical proximity. "Well, frankly, I'm flattered, Grace."

In the name of self-preservation she counters swiftly with, "What I _said_ was that you're an attractive man, not that _I_ find you attractive. Completely different thing."

There's a glint in his dark eyes that Grace doesn't trust an inch. "So you _don't_ find me attractive?"

"Stop it," she grumbles. This is an old, old game, one they've played on and off almost from the very beginning of their working relationship. Flirtatious banter, heavy on meaning and innuendo, but ultimately nothing more than idle entertainment, a bit of sport to help some of the longer, more tedious hours pass by a little more easily. "Go and buy a sports car like every other fifty-something man who's in denial about his age. Or find yourself a busty blonde young enough to be your daughter to keep you warm at night. Just stop being so bloody _miserable_."

"That's not an answer," Boyd says, but though his expression is absolutely deadpan the untrustworthy glint in his eyes has become even more roguish. "I said – "

"I _know_ what you said," she interrupts, "but I'm not playing this game with you, not tonight."

"Why not tonight? It's my birthday."

"That's _why_ I'm not playing it with you tonight."

"Female logic at its most inscrutable, Grace. Scared I might forget myself and leap on you?"

Not an idea Grace really wants to consider. Not with the alcohol gently singing in her blood and the tangible amount of heat radiating off his body warming the increasingly small space between them. Far, far too dangerous, particularly given the fact that she's fairly sure Boyd has had considerably more to drink than she has. But instead of batting the challenge deftly away, an obstinate touch of defiance makes her say, "No."

She expects him to laugh, to continue the familiar banter. She doesn't expect him to pin her with an enigmatic dark gaze and say, "Hm. Perhaps you should be."

It's the tone as much as the words themselves that sends an unexpected shockwave jolting up and down her spine. Deep and smooth yet more than a touch husky. Not a tone she's ever heard him use before, not once in all the time they've known each other; not to her, not to anyone. A tempting dark growl, dangerous and compelling. Startled, Grace stares at him, searching his expression for signs of mockery. She finds none. Uneasily, she smiles. "If I was thirty years younger, I might be a little concerned, but I think I'm fairly safe. Don't you?"

The steady gaze doesn't waver. "You think so?"

Grace forces a chuckle – but even to her it sounds brittle and unconvincing. "Someone's _definitely_ had far too much to drink."

Boyd still doesn't back down. "A man's entitled to have a few drinks on his birthday."

"Absolutely," she agrees. "You won't hear any argument from me on that score. But I think I should point out that it's getting very late and you – "

"Stop talking," he says abruptly.

She does – and it infuriates her. This is not _how_ she is and this is not _who_ she is. Grace hasn't spent the better part of her adult life clawing out a sterling reputation for herself in a heavily male-dominated profession just to be so easily silenced by such a bullish, autocratic and thoroughly exasperating man – however attractive he is. However attracted to him she might unfortunately be. Annoyance helps her find her voice again. "I'm really not in the mood for this, Boyd. Just because you're – "

However predictable it might be, by the time she realises he's going to kiss her, it's too late. Far too late, in fact. There's nothing tentative about the way he does it, either; no trace of indecision, no deliberate hesitation to allow her the chance to duck away. Boyd simply kisses her, and there's something about his absolute confidence that grabs hold of Grace and won't let go. It's more persuasive than demanding, the way his mouth takes hers, but the end result is the same – in just a very few heartbeats she's kissing him back just as insistently, just as intensely. It's instinct, it's attraction; it's something forbidden that's been suppressed for far too long that wells up from deep inside her and lays waste to all the artificial boundaries between them. There's no room for rational thought, no room for questions or fears or doubts, and maybe that's just as well. She's definitely not thinking about the implications of what's happening, not even when the hand that's unaccountably resting on her waist slowly starts to move.

It takes a few moments, but alarm bells start to ring loudly and unpleasantly in her head at the startling but far from unpleasant sensation of that stray hand travelling easily and knowingly across her ribs towards her breast. One moment of alcohol-induced madness on a colleague's birthday is perhaps excusable, easily enough dismissed with a shrug and a self-conscious laugh, but…

Though determined, Grace breaks away from the kiss gently enough, draws back from him in the most natural, measured way she can. Her heart is thudding hard in her chest. From somewhere she finds a bright, deliberate smile. "Happy birthday, Boyd."

She expects him to take the cue to smile back – wickedly if he must – and join her in the elegant pretence, but he doesn't. The look in his eyes is feral and hungry and not at all abashed. Again, his voice is low and husky, undeniably carnal. "Grace…"

Her spine prickles again, and despite herself, she swallows hard. For a moment she feels absurdly uneasy, and she quickly scolds herself for it. She's neither young nor inexperienced and however intense the look Boyd is giving her, she knows a single firm word would be more than enough to instantly re-establish and strengthen all the fallen boundaries. No words form. She simply stares at him, thoroughly caught in whatever arcane spell the unforeseen moment is weaving around them both.

Maybe Boyd takes her complete silence as encouragement, because he mutters, "Christ, I want you."

The words hit Grace low in the stomach, cause a hot, fierce jolt that seems to travel through her entire body spreading a clear message of vibrant, unexpected need as it does so. It's been a long, long time since she's felt anything remotely like it. Far too long, in fact. Oh, there have been a handful of men over the last few years – a handful of men admittedly resulting in even fewer sexual encounters – but she really doesn't remember the last time when something quite so urgent and quite so primal flared spontaneously within her. It startles her, flusters her, but it excites her, too. Stirs illicit thoughts and dreams that have no place anywhere beyond the lonely privacy of her moonlit bedroom.

Boyd is leaning towards her again, the hypnotic gaze still pinioning her, and there's absolutely no doubt in her mind that he's going to kiss her again. Nor that if he does, she will surrender instantly and give him anything – _everything_ – that it might please him to take. She can see from Boyd's slight, perceptive smile that he knows it, too, and maybe that's what brings her so quickly and painfully back to some kind of understandable reality. Swiftly, Grace puts a hand flat on his chest, staying him. It doesn't help that she can immediately feel the raw animal heat of his body through the thin material of his shirt. Again she swallows convulsively. It would be so damn easy. And a terrible, terrible mistake. Wouldn't it? She shakes her head. "No, Boyd. Enough."

Her refusal is as simple and unambiguous as it could possibly be and she clearly sees all the emotions that chase freely through his eyes in instant response – incredulity, irritation, frustration, and only finally a very unwilling acceptance. The questing hand on her ribcage falls away immediately but for several long, long moments the intent dark gaze remains fixed unblinkingly on her. Silent, exasperated questions asked, absolutely no answers given. Her pulse is still racing. Grace looks away first, embarrassment and a very unwelcome edge of anxiety fighting for supremacy as she raises her glass to take a grateful sip of the potent spirit it holds. Displacement activity. She hears the rough sound of Boyd clearing his throat, waits for him to speak.

He doesn't. Not immediately. Not for several long, highly-charged seconds. She is grimly fighting the urge to look at him when he finally mumbles, "Sorry."

It's a banal word but probably the _only_ word remotely suitable for the circumstances; the only word that won't plunge them both into a maelstrom of conflict, confusion and contradiction. It's an effort, but Grace determinedly shakes off the worst of the lingering embarrassment to reply as lightly as she can, "You _really_ need to find yourself that young blonde, Boyd."

He briefly laughs, but it sounds forced and awkward. "Don't I bloody know it."

Grace risks a sideways glance. He is not looking at her, he is looking down at the heavy glass now clasped firmly in both hands, and the quiet melancholy of before is steadily creeping back into his expression. She frowns to herself, wondering for the first time if there is more to his disconsolate mood than just the enforced confrontation of yet another birthday. A new thought strikes her, and she examines it carefully for a moment. Is it possible that it's not merely age that's beginning to bite hard, but loneliness, too? Divorced middle-aged men are two-a-penny in London, but Boyd has lost far more than most and he's hardly the most sociable of characters. Is he beginning to realise that the lonely future that was once so very far away is now approaching fast?

She's considering how to broach the incredibly sensitive subject – or whether to broach it at all – when he suddenly says, "Christ, I really screwed that one up, didn't I? You'd think I'd have learnt my damned lesson by now."

Bewildered, she frowns again. "Learnt your lesson?"

He turns his head slightly, studies her with no particular expression. "I'm well aware that I'm not the most… likeable… guy in the world. I'm not so self-absorbed that I don't realise that, Grace."

"Boyd – "

He waves her off, leaning back on the couch. "It's okay; you don't need to think of something incredibly tactful to say."

"Actually," she counters mildly, "I was going to say that all things considered I think you're a little too hard on yourself."

For a moment she thinks he's going to smile. He doesn't. But there's a gruff note of wry humour in his voice as he asks, "Yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah."

The silence that creeps between them is not exactly comfortable, but it has lost its brittle edge. It's not a silence to savour by any means, but it is tolerable. If it doesn't acquire too much significance.

"I'm sorry about… before." Boyd shrugs a little helplessly. "Too much cheap vino on an empty stomach."

It's going to be all right. Probably. "I warned you about mixing the grape and the grain."

He grimaces. "Shame you didn't also think to warn me about not drinking anything that cost three quid a bottle from the local supermarket."

"I just naturally assumed you'd know better. At your age."

"Thanks. You're a real comfort." Boyd finishes what's left in his glass in one quick swallow and gets to his feet, heads for his desk and the whiskey bottle sitting there. Back turned to her, he says, "They warned me that this bloody job would drive me to drink in the end."

Grace does not point out that they both know the job, taxing though it is, has nothing at all to do with why he is refilling his glass. It occurs to her that she's never seen him the worse for drink. Sometimes a little over-exuberant after one too many with the team on a Friday night or after celebrating a successful conviction, but never falling-down-drunk. And he isn't now. But he might be soon if he keeps pouring himself such generous measures. She watches as he turns back to face her, leaning himself up against the desk instead of returning to the couch. Neither of them says anything. Not until she hears her own voice ask, "What did you mean?"

Boyd gives her a faintly bemused look. "What?"

"When you said you'd screwed things up. What did you mean?"

His gaze is guarded but incredibly intent. "Oh, I think you know the answer to that already. Don't you?"

There is _an_ answer, of course, but she's not sure it's _the_ answer. Grace shakes her head. "Enlighten me."

He snorts softly. "Come _on_, Grace. Time to use some of that highly-tuned female intuition of yours. I may have had a few, but even so I'm really not in the habit of making random passes at female colleagues."

"I know that." It sounds inane, but the unfamiliar territory they seem to have stumbled into is so potentially dangerous that she simply isn't prepared to risk saying anything else. Too many conflicting things are already crashing noisily around in her skull, and she doesn't like it. Not one bit. She's finding that things that are theoretically exciting in the abstract are altogether more daunting as they start to take on the suggestion of a more tangible form. And all the time Boyd continues to watch her. Grace wonders what he sees. What he _really_ sees. A valued friend and colleague, or merely a lonely single woman even older than himself? One who sometimes lies awake at night constructing ridiculous if entertaining fantasies about a brash, dysfunctional man who is somehow a safe focus for such things simply because in reality he would never spare her second glance.

Except that suddenly he has. Considerably more than a second glance, in fact.

"Well?" he probes. "You're the expert on the whys and wherefores of human behaviour. Aren't you itching to tell me exactly what's going on in my head?"

"I really wouldn't attempt to try," she tells him honestly. "I'm not clairvoyant, Boyd, I merely study patterns of behaviour and the reasons for those patterns."

"Evasion," Boyd says, sounding faintly self-satisfied. He finishes his second whiskey in a final decisive mouthful and sets the empty glass down neatly on the desk. "You really shouldn't ask questions you don't actually want answers to, Grace. Any decent detective worth his salt will tell you that."

"Point taken," she says quietly. She finishes her own drink before she adds, "Likewise, taking something just because it's there rather than because you actually _want_ it is always an unfulfilling exercise in complete futility. Any decent psychologist will tell _you_ that."

"Touché." He puts his hands in his pockets, deliberately nonchalant. "But if one _did_ actually want that thing…?"

"Well, if that were true…" Grace deliberately lets the sentence trail away.

He smiles suddenly, the abrupt change of mood and expression taking her completely by surprise. "Ah, Grace, you really know how to keep a poor guy dangling on the end of a piece of string, don't you? One day. One bloody day, you'll see."

Something about the way he says it prevents the gentle accusation from getting under her skin the way she thinks it should. It's an unlikely flag of truce, but it's a flag of truce nonetheless. She stands up, moves to put her empty glass on the desk beside his. The dangerous frisson of challenge and anticipation has completely vanished from the room and Grace is a little disappointed to find that she's inordinately glad. Perhaps she's just not as willing to take risks as she often likes to imagine she is. And Boyd would be an enormous risk to take.

He snags her wrist without warning, his grip firm but gentle enough. "You're a very wise woman, Grace Foley; you know that, don't you?"

She doesn't feel very wise, gazing into those deep dark eyes and remembering the heated promise they held not too many minutes previously. She feels like a woman who might just have made the sort of mistake that she will regret for a long, long time. Something inside her that is contrary and rebellious makes her lean towards him a fraction. Once again, Boyd does not hesitate, but this kiss is very different from the first. It's gentler, far less urgent; perfectly orchestrated and incredibly bittersweet. Poignant, even. They draw apart slowly and by mutual consent. Boyd releases her wrist and shakes his head slightly. There is infinitely more regret than anything else in his voice as he says, "Go on, get out of here. I have a lot of Scotch to drink and a lot of solitary brooding to do."

She doesn't argue with him, just says, "Promise me you'll call a cab?"

"Of course. Do you really think I'm stupid enough to risk losing my licence?"

"No." She studies him carefully for a moment. Dares to ask, "No hard feelings?"

"None whatsoever," he assures her easily. "Christ, I get knocked back so often nowadays that I'm seriously considering adopting total celibacy as a deliberate life-style choice."

She snorts. "I have total faith in your ability to do just that – right up until the first 'come hither' look from an attractive thirty-something blonde, brunette or redhead."

"You have such a low opinion of me, Grace."

"Not at all. I just know you very well indeed."

"Yes you do. Which is a considerable disadvantage for both of us, really."

He's right. She picks up her bag from the couch. "Go and buy a sports car, Boyd. It'll make you feel so much better."

"I might just do that. Will you come for a ride?"

"I'm going to assume that was an unsubtle double entendre and politely decline. Happy birthday."

Not for the first time he grimaces. "Go home, Grace."

She reaches the door before she looks over her shoulder at him. She's fairly good at double meanings herself. "I take it you do realise that it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind?"

Boyd nods solemnly. "I absolutely realise that. And I shall eternally live in hope from this moment forth."

Hand on the door-handle, she says, "Don't drink too much more or you'll _really_ hate yourself in the morning."

"Go."

She smiles. "'Night, Boyd."

Once again he shakes his head. The last thing Grace sees as she quietly closes his office door is Boyd stoically picking up the whiskey bottle again. She walks away without a qualm, but she isn't naïve enough to believe that she will be feeling quite so equable later when she's lying alone in her bed replaying the evening's events over and over again. Until then, however, she's happy to embrace the temporary feeling of serenity. Maybe he's right. Maybe there will be a "one day" for them. One day.

_- the end -_


End file.
